


From The Ashes

by ferowyn



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: AU, M/M, Multi, don't tell me you're surprised, h/c, haha even more drama, they're all rather slow really, time-travel, timetravel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 04:22:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8830306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferowyn/pseuds/ferowyn
Summary: Closing his eyes after a rather violent encounter with Azog and opening them again sitting on the bench in front of Bag End was very-much-not what Bilbo expected when he joined his dwarves in the Battle Of Five Armies. And, to be honest, the thought of doing everything again, without any of them knowing what they mean to him, was rather terrifying...





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, yes, I know. Bad girl, wrong story, but. I don't do it on purpose, you know?
> 
> Anyway, this... really, really wanted to be written. So, I wrote it.  
> Enjoy.

### From The Ashes

_From the ashes a fire shall be woken,_  
_A light from the shadows shall spring;_  
_(Renewed shall be blade that was broken,)_  
_The crownless again shall be king._

 

The heavy knock on the door made Bilbo’s heart stop.

They were coming.

They were coming, and this was real, it was actually happening, and what was he supposed to do-

In a sudden moment of gallows humour he darted the lone fish waiting on his plate a last mournful glance, having prepared it in a fit of defiance before convincing himself that it was better this way, really, he better change nothing-

Anyway, there was no time for this now.

Dwalin would be waiting, and no matter how distraught Bilbo may be, no matter how much the thought alone may have made his heart beat wildly – there was no way he was going to leave the other standing outside. He could never close his door to his dwarves. Well, they may not be _his_ dwarves, not the way they used to be, but they were yet the same dwarrow he would one day call family, the same dwarrow he _used to_ call family, and-

“Dwalin,” the tall warrior barked, “at your service.”

And Bilbo stared.

For, oh, it was Dwalin alright, his Dwalin, but there was no blood to be found upon his skin, nor any hatred in his eyes. If the hobbit were completely honest with himself, instead there was something that looked terrifyingly like trepidation, maybe even fear, but… well.

He may be Dwalin, but he still was not _Bilbo’s_ Dwalin.

And, perhaps, never would be.

“B-Bilbo Baggins,” he stuttered, more than overwhelmed, “at… yours?” He barely managed not to bow, the way Dori had taught him, and stepped aside with shuffling feet, allowing the tall dwarf to enter.

Dwalin stared at him for a few short, never-ending moments, something deep in his eyes alight with an emotion the hobbit could not name, before brushing past him.

“Dinner?”

“T-That way…”

And, oh, Bilbo would be ashamed of himself, for stuttering like this and allowing a dwarf – a dwarf! The Valar knew he had seen enough of those by now! – to thusly rattle him, if it were not for the fact, that, well. He still remembered, clearly and painfully, the way Azog’s claw had ripped through the thin, weak skin at his neck, where no mithril protection had lain, before – but moments later – Orcrist had finally hit true, piercing through the Pale Orc’s cruel heart. He remembered staring dumbly for a few blinks, shock keeping him both quiet and standing, before his knees had buckled and he had fallen. He had cried out then, or rather tried to, for the terrible gurgling sound that had come from his torn throat had been anything but a cry, and desperately tried to breathe-

He remembered, oh, he _remembered_ – the agonizing fury in Thorin’s eyes, and the seething hatred in Dwalin’s.

He had so desperately wanted to apologize to them, to tell them that all he had wished to do was save them, save the Company, his _family_ -

But, well. After another one of those terrible gurgling sounds he had closed his eyes, just for a moment, unable to look into theirs any longer, and when he had opened them… He had sat on his bench, in his garden in front of Bag End, smoking his pipe.

Breathing just fine.

For a few moments, he had wondered – had it all been a dream? A stupid, terrifying, wonderful fantasy, thought up by his Took heart?

Then a smokey butterfly had hit his nose and Gandalf had stood there, all knowing eyes and meddling mouth, asking him to go on an adventure.

And now here he was, staring dumbly after Dwalin, who was happily devouring his dinner, the poor fish but a pile of thin bones by now.

His gaze on the wall opposite to him, the broad warrior truly was a sight to behold. All dark countenance and bulging muscle, and Bilbo hesitated for but a few moments before scurrying over and offering the dwarf a plate of scones he had, after all, prepared for his dwarrow despite his better knowledge.

Dwalin raised his gaze to look at the hobbit then, for the first time since he had brushed past him, and once again there was something – _something_ – that Bilbo could not quite place.

At all.

He had once prided himself on his ability to read his dwarrow, to finally know what they were thinking and understand what they meant when they opened their confounding mouths, but-

But-

…

They were no longer _his_ dwarrow, were they?

Dwalin nodded in silent thanks before grabbing one of the scones, and Bilbo stood frozen in shock.

He certainly could not remember the tall, burly dwarf ever thanking him for anything at all until they had known each other much better.

 _Much_.

In the meantime Dwalin tore into the scone, brooding gaze directed at the wall of his poor smial once more, and Bilbo found himself beyond lost for words. Oh, he had known – ever since Gandalf had scratched that sign into his door he had known that this, _this_ , would be agony. Seeing his dwarrow again, before they had hated him for taking the Arkenstone, but knowing that they were not _his_ dwarrow, and perhaps never would be, if he made but one mistake-

The knocking echoing through the wooden hallways of his home made him jump, and Dwalin grunt.

“That’d be the door.”

Nodding dazedly, Bilbo made for the same.

He did not, however, miss the way Dwalin reached for one more scone to shove into his mouth before rising from the small bench, following after the hobbit.

Had he done that the last time?-

“Balin,” the elderly dwarf smiled, polite as always, “at your service!”, but there was a certain edge to it Bilbo had rarely ever seen in the wise advisor’s features.

He managed to stutter out his own greetings none the less and Balin gave him another kind smile before walking up to his brother who was waiting in the doorway, something Bilbo would have thought to be worry, had he not known better, in the old dwarf’s eyes.

“Dwalin,” he said, and now there was no denying the worry any longer.

Bilbo knew his dear friend well enough to, well, know, thank you very much.

The brothers knocked their heads together, but not quite as hard as the last time, and traded a few whispered words in Khuzdul that even the fine hearing of a hobbit could barely pick up, let alone make out. Or, well, understand, seeing as how he had never learned the language so sacred to Mahal’s children. Oh, they had promised that they would teach him, once the dragon was out of the way and they had finally retaken their rightful home-

But, well. Arkenstones, and terrible battles, and a general hatred of his person had quite thwarted any plans he, and the other two, and the rest of his family might have had. And then Azog had torn open his throat and he had known, then, that whatever he might have expected his future to be… there was not much of one left for him.

Two heavy gazes suddenly resting on his trembling form shook him from his brooding (oh great, Thorin was actually rubbing off on him, even in his absence) and he flinched heavily, forcing himself to face the brothers.

“Did you… need anything?”

“Oh aye,” Balin smiled kindly, subtly placing himself between Bilbo and Dwalin, and had he not known them so well – the hobbit really would not have realized. As it was, however, he was not so easily fooled by any of the elderly dwarf’s tactics, and the thought that Balin thought it necessary (for whatever reason) to protect his younger sibling from him… “I don’t know how much the wizard – Gandalf – told you, but there are more dwarrow yet coming, thirteen in total. We were promised dinner, so, if you don’t mind- …”

“O-Of course,” Bilbo stuttered, his poor, shaken mind occupied with both attempting to keep up with what was going on, especially the changes, and trying not to look at Dwalin too much. Or at all, really. The memories were too painful, too raw, and most certainly too much to handle right now. “T-Thirteen, you said?”

Thirteen, of course.

Always thirteen.

His family-

He showed them to the pantries, then, ignoring the wide-eyed glances they exchanged, and even helped them haul the tables from both kitchen and dining room into the parlour, before yet another knock called him to the door once again.

Once more he hesitated, fingers shaking, before forcing himself to open it.

Looking upon the boys – was almost more than he could take. (And still he knew, the worst was yet to come-) Looking upon their smiling, _unbroken_ faces, no wound nor blood to mar the young features-

“Fíli,” the golden prince said,

“And Kíli,” the dark one continued, and it was all Bilbo could do not to grab the both of them and either haul them close, or give them the scolding of their lives for having been so terribly, cruelly reckless.

“At your service!”

Both of them were beaming, and yet – there was an edge to it, much like the one than had sharpened Balin’s kind smile, and one he most certainly could not place still.

(One that, he was quite convinced, should not have been there-)

Quietly introducing himself he allowed them to step into his beloved smial that suddenly could not have felt any less like home, and Fíli’s eyes narrowed. Discarding a few, if far from all, of his knives he watched Bilbo with an intensity that made the hobbit’s skin crawl and his heart stutter in his chest, even as Kíli made for where Dwalin and Balin were setting the table – without attempting to clean his boots on Belladonna’s glory box, and wasn’t that strange?

Bilbo gulped heavily and fled to one of his pantries, dazedly grabbing what he might need for a nice and filling stew. Confusing their behaviour might be, and _his_ dwarrow or not, there was no way he was going to let them go hungry.

It was but the years of cooking experience that allowed him to prepare what he needed, with his thoughts running in such tight circles. He could hear the two pairs of brothers converse in low Khuzdul in his parlour, and he was quite at a loss. What – just what was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to deal with this, the memories of both happier times when they had been his family, and the terrible ending to his grand adventure that had ended with so much bloodshed, and pretend that, for him, it had not all happened before?

How was he supposed to look upon the two dwarrow he had once promised both his heart and his life to, what seemed like an endless time ago, and pretend he did not love them?

Feeling a heavy gaze on him Bilbo raised his head only to look right into Fíli’s terribly suspicious eyes, and, oh, it _hurt_ , having them doubt him thusly once more.

(Not as much as their hatred had hurt, though. Nothing could ever be as painful-)

Another knock resounded through Bag End and Bilbo steeled himself, opening the door fairly easily this time. It was only his family after all, nothing to fear…

His heart might as well have stopped when they did _not_ tumble inside, with Bombur landing on top.

And it might have stopped just again when Thorin stepped through, eyes like a bright, cold winter’s sky immediately finding Bilbo’s trembling form.

“Master Baggins,” he said gravely, inclining his head, and there was an unhappy twitch to the thin line of his mouth that put all his past brooding to shame. His heavy gaze lingered on the poor shaking hobbit for a few more moments before he tore it away almost forcefully, stomping off to where his nephews were waiting, and taking his share of Bilbo’s heart with him.

All of the others began to file past him, then, most either bowing or introducing themselves, and he found himself floundering, until-

Well.

In retrospect, there had been many moments he might have realized, many moments almost bright amongst the confused darkness of his mind, bright with overt differences.

Dwalin’s greeting of his brother.

Balin’s warning about the number of guests he was to expect.

Kíli’s not-defiling of his mother’s glory box.

Fíli’s squinted eyes and heavy gazes.

The glaring absence of “He looks more like a grocer than a burglar.”

Bofur’s wide and entirely too sad eyes, no smile to be found on his unusually pale lips.

Bombur’s stuttered introduction.

Bifur’s rude gesture.

Nori’s honest smile.

Dori’s clenched jaw, and the striking absence of the polite bow he had once taught the hobbit.

Óin’s trumpet-free hands.

Glóin’s unsettled shuffling.

Gandalf’s enigmatic smiles. (Well, to be honest, those were never actually telling of anything, really.)

In the end, though – for all that either of those instances should have been more than suspicious – it was the terrible sheen in Ori`s eyes that tore him from his ignorance. The youngest of his brothers had kept to the end of the line, shaking fingers clinging to his knitted mittens. He looked incredibly young and fragile when he finally stepped in front of Bilbo, worrying his lower lip, and there was naught to do but reach out and draw him into an embrace like he had done so many times before when Ori had approached him with fears he had felt ashamed to trouble his brothers with, instinct taking over.

Ori easily moved into his embrace as though he, too, were used to the gesture.

Bilbo froze.

He should not have-

They did not know-

What would they _think_ -

And then Ori melted against him, hiccupping quietly as his tears began to flow, and the hobbit’s heart stopped.

“B-Bilbo,” the young dwarf muttered, yet all their host could hear were the frantically exchanged mutters in Khuzdul in the parlour, both Thorin’s and Dwalin’s voices easily recognizable.

Oh _no_.

“O-Ori,” he choked, “I- … I need to- …”

The redhead pulled away to look at him in clear, wide-eyed concern, releasing his tight hold on the slighter figure for but a moment, and as he opened his mouth to ask Bilbo took the chance and-

Fled.

Oh, it was disgraceful, and cowardly, and downright pathetic, but.

They knew.

They _knew_ , and now he would never- … he would never- …

“Bilbo?” a deep voice carefully whispered.

He did not need to raise his head from where he had hidden it between his knees in his little hideout down in his smallest pantry, to know that the one standing in the doorway (the only way out-) was Thorin. King Under the Mountain, and once-

Once-

“Bilbo,” the tall dwarf said again, voice still rumbling and deep and strong like the mountains themselves, and yet there was something that sounded horribly like pain to the hobbit’s ears. “We have wronged you greatly, I know, and please – believe me if I vow that we will do everything in our power to make amends for… what we did. I am well aware that my word might mean little to you, after everything that happened, and… but, I would swear on both my ancestors and my heirs that I wish no ill nor harm upon you. And I… I can certainly understand if you might not want to accompany us again, not after- … when- …”

And what followed then sounded so much like a sob that Bilbo almost raised his head, after all.

“Just – tell me,” Thorin then gasped quite suddenly, “if you wish for us to leave. If you fear us- … tell me, and we will not bother you again!”

As much as that promise seemed to pain the King, it pained Bilbo even more.

He shot up from where he had been curled together in his pathetic corner, almost hitting his head on a low shelf in the process, looking at the dark-haired dwarf with wild eyes. “No,” he heard himself beg, “don’t leave! Please- … I-”

Breathing was suddenly quite hard again, unforgivingly reminding him of the terrible pain that had tormented him not even a day ago, when suddenly strong, safe arms wound themselves around his small shoulders, pulling him against a powerful chest. The tunic, which he knew would be quite torn at the end of the impending journey, was still whole and richly blue, but it smelled the same. Of sweat and metal and Thorin.

That, more than anything else, allowed him to find his way back.

The deep rumble of Thorin’s voice, whispering what might have been sweet nothings or the entire secrets of his people, for all that Bilbo did not understand a word, was like a life-line. For there was no hatred to the well-known cadence, no anger nor fury, and the hobbit’s poor battered heart finally slowed down enough to allow its bearer to think straight (or as straight as he could, anyway) once more.

“T-Thorin,” he stuttered, “I-I’m sorry- … I shouldn’t have-”

Thorin’s arms around him tightened once more, a safety he had not thought to ever feel again wrapping around both body and heart, and his broad chest rumbled deeply with the words he next spoke.

“Bilbo – whatever you are apologizing for… this is not the place for us to have this conversation. I- … allow me to carry you to your bedroom?”

It took the hobbit a little while to understand that the latter had been a question, and one he was meant to answer at that. For a few fleeting moments thoughts of the last time Thorin had held him, dangling from his strong fingers with but the rocks to meet him far below, froze him in rattled terror, but then he forced himself to nod. Whatever was going on here – the dwarf he had once used to call beloved, betrothed even, had any right to call death his fate once more, after how he had betrayed them.

Upon the tiny movement against his chest one of Thorin’s strong arms left its place around Bilbo’s shoulders, making the hobbit shiver with sudden cold, only to dip underneath his thighs and easily lift him up, swiftly carrying him from the cool room and towards the master bedroom.

The master bedroom, the door to witch Dwalin opened for them – and closed behind himself, after he, too, had stepped inside.

Thorin, in the meantime, lowered Bilbo onto the bed, before once more withdrawing his strong arms from the hobbit and sitting down in front of him, Dwalin joining him on the wooden floor soon after.

Bilbo closed his eyes, buried his shaking fingers in the bedding underneath him. Oh, he was a coward, not even able to meet the gazes of the two beings he loved above all else, so terrified of what he might find there-

“Bilbo,” Thorin said, once again, and there was a pained note to it that forced the hobbit’s eyes open despite his stiffening fear, “I- … We- …”

And he sat there, King under the Mountain (to be), with shaking fingers of his own, and there were… _tears_ in his cerulean eyes?

“We… wish to apologize,” Dwalin took over when it seemed his husband could not speak any further, that edge of fear still darkening his eyes. “We should not have- …”

Bilbo’s barely suppressed sob appeared to rob him, too, of what whatever words he might have wanted to say.

The hobbit stared at them, the two dwarrow who had promised to keep and cherish him forevermore, who had woven clever braids into his short curls and held him tightly between them on the cold floors of their newly reclaimed home, who had barely been able to keep their strong hands from wandering and their clever mouths from straying- … who had proclaimed him a traitor and banished him from both their sight and home, to never set eyes upon him again-

…

“I’m s-sorry,” he sobbed, barely able to speak through the violent trembles shaking his body, but desperate to tell them what he had been unable to when naught but blood had bubbled from his throat and the world had begun to grow colder than ever before. “I’m so sorry I t-took it, I didn’t… didn’t want to, but-but-but you were all…” Changed, yes, mad, _oh yes_ , but neither of those could ever warrant a betrayal as deep as his- “going to die, and I couldn’t… I couldn’t let that happen! I should’ve never taken the A-Arkenstone, should’ve never given it to _Thranduil_ , I know,” and he was not sure whether they even understood him anymore, sobs almost threatening to tear him apart, but he _needed to tell them_ , “I know, and I knew you would h-hate me, b-but they would’ve k-killed you, a-and-”

Two pairs of strong arms suddenly wrapping themselves around his shoulders (and for a short, terrifying moment he knew they were the only things still keeping him together) and a tight but gentle embrace cut off his mad, desperate rambling.

“Bilbo,” Thorin whispered into his ear, voice heavy with something he could not quite place, “there is no need for you to apologize. You… yes, you hurt us, and the both of us felt terribly betrayed when we realized what you had given away,” and here their firm embraces were what kept him from fleeing, “but either of us was mad with desire for the hoard. We understand your reasoning now, and we understood it back in Erebor, after Smaug’s curse had finally left our minds.”

“We were going to beg you for forgiveness, Bilbo,” Dwalin continued wearily, “after that battle was over. We were going to rescind that banishment, and grovel until you might forgive us and, maybe, even take back our braids. But then-”

Both dwarrow’s arms around him tightened quite suddenly, and Bilbo finally – finally – allowed himself to bury his face in Thorin’s shoulder.

“B-But I saw you,” he whispered, not even knowing where he found the strength to do so. “Before I- … you were so _furious_ -”

“Of course we were,” Thorin murmured, deep voice choked and trembling, “Azog took so much from us already, and then you were stupid and brave enough to jump between the two of us and him, and he- … I knew, the moment I saw you, that there would be no grovelling for us, and no continued courtship.” Bilbo felt him gulp, then, just like he felt the deep shiver that ran through Dwalin’s strong frame- “Oh, I was mad with fury that this wretched creature would dare and take another one I loved from me, and it was that fury that gave me the strength to take my chance when your courageous actions offered me an opening, but- … it was already too late.” His blunt fingers were digging into Bilbo’s shoulders by now, quite painfully, but, in a way, that grounded him when nothing else might have. “I knew, Bilbo, I knew when I saw your injury, but I hoped, I _hoped_ that there would be time at least to say goodbye-”

“But when we reached you,” Dwalin continued gruffly when Thorin buried his own face in the mess of Bilbo’s hair, braking into terrible sobs himself, “you were already gone… left us to pick up the pieces of our hearts. We were… at a loss, broken, and then we heard word of the boys…”

“I-I’m sorry,” Bilbo hiccupped, “I didn’t want to… I just, I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you, either of you!”

“And you think it was any easier for us, having lost _you_?” Dwalin growled painfully, even as he detangled one hand from their desperate embrace to bury in Thorin’s hair, gently kneading his skull in an attempt to soothe his distraught husband. “Half of our lives we’d spent dreaming of returning to Erebor, of finally going _home_ , and suddenly, it was not much of a home at all any longer, with you and the princes gone.”

He, too, was shaking now.

Bilbo breathed in deeply, the well-known and -loved scents of both his dwarrow allowing him to calm down enough to ask a question the answer to which he almost dreaded.

“When- … how long-…”

“How long until we came here?” Dwalin inquired tiredly, resorting to hiding his face in Bilbo’s tousled curls as well. “The following evening. We spent the rest of the day… well, mourning. We took your b-body and the boys’ into the mountain, and Dáin…”

“He told us he’d take care of everything, so that we might grieve for what we had lost,” Thorin quietly explained, voice raw with pain. “We, the Company… we sat with the three of you as… it’s the custom of our people, to hold vigil over a fallen family member so that they might find their way to Mahal’s halls or… wherever you go, without being detained or led astray.”

“We were quite shaken when we realized that we knew naught of hobbits’ funeral customs,” Dwalin admitted, deep voice as pained as his husband’s. “We so wished to give you the burial you deserved, but all we could do was… treat you as one of our own people.”

“`Twas our only hope,” Thorin whispered brokenly, “that your Lady, being Mahal’s wife, would allow you entrance all the same… and perhaps even grant you access to our Creator’s halls, once we followed, so that we might see you again, and perhaps do the grovelling if not in this life, then in the next.”

“We shouldn’t have slept,” Dwalin continued, and there was something deep and broken and _angry_ trying to claw its way out at that admission. “We should’ve stayed with you and kept your bodies safe for three days and nights, but- … one by one, we were all torn from this world. Perhaps it was Mahal’s will, who knows, for when we awoke, we found ourselves just outside the Shire this morning, with Fíli and Kíli alive and hale, and Gandalf waiting for us.”

“We did not think… Neither of us believed that you, too, would remember. But, our creator and his wife must be even more merciful than we ever thought them to be, for they… returned you to us, so that we might try and make amends,” Thorin murmured hoarsely. “So that we might grovel after all.” And at that there was a slightly mischievous tilt to his voice, and when Bilbo slowly – carefully – raised his head he found a crooked smile amongst the still flowing tears, and unrestrained joy amongst pain and grief. “We love you, Bilbo Baggins of Bag End. You hold our hearts, and have done so ever since you so sneakily burgled them from us on our journey. For all the pain that either of us had to endure… you are here, with us, and… we will forever be at your service, until you might forgive what we did to you, and take us back.”

“You…” Bilbo gulped heavily. It certainly sounded like it, but he had to hear them say- “You _want_ me back? Despite everything that happened, despite the depth of my betrayal?”

“Your betrayal,” Thorin said, and the hobbit flinched, “mattered little when we understood that, had we listened to you, you and our boys might have been alive. That, without it, even more of us would have been lost.”

“There is nothing we want more than put those braids back into your hair,” Dwalin swore hoarsely, “and keep you safe between us until the end of days.”

“I- …” Bilbo licked his dry lips, suddenly terribly aware of the two pairs of intent eyes following the small movement. “If you… really find it in yourselves to forgive me for what I have done, then… please, I would beg you to return my braids to me, so that I might believe it.”

Both dwarrow’s eyes widened.

Dwalin scrambled up to sit next to him on the bed even as Thorin dug deeply into his pockets, pulling two shining beads from a small leather pouch. Beads Bilbo knew only too well.

“Really? You’d allow us to retake our places by your side, just like that?”

“You’ll simply forgive us?” Thorin inquired quietly, and Bilbo felt a gentle smile spread across his lips quite against his will.

But, really, why wouldn’t he smile?

“If you forgave me, why wouldn’t I forgive you?”

Both rushed forward, then, to weave the braids back into his a little too short hair with shaking fingers, and then attempt to kiss the smile off his lips. They might have strayed further, into realms neither of their people would allow them to enter during courtship, if not for the sharp knock at the bedroom door.

“Are the three of you alright in there?”

“Quite,” Bilbo called out (voice still a little broken, but that was fair enough) when neither of his two beloved dwarrow made a move to answer, Dwalin staring at the door with dark eyes as if willing his brother to leave them be.

“Are you decent?” Dori’s worried voice chimed in, and Thorin snorted indignantly.

“Quite,” Bilbo repeated himself, the smile slipping back onto his lips.

He slowly began digging himself out of the wonderfully warm pile of limbs the three of them had descended into, pressing a chaste kiss against either grumbling dwarf’s lips. “They’re my family,” he quietly explained when Thorin requested the reason for his leaving with wide, mournful eyes (the brat!). “I… I thought they, too, hated me. I need to-”

“Of course,” Dwalin rumbled, quite suddenly ceasing his more or less (rather less) subtle attempts to keep Bilbo buried underneath both their warm, strong bodies. He even rose, helping the smaller one to flatten his ruffled hair and ignoring his husband’s adorable pout. “We’ll be right along.”

Bilbo shot him a blinding smile before hurrying for the door, pulling it open quite suddenly.

Eleven dwarves almost fell into his bedroom.

Raising an eyebrow in question he watched the lot of them blush, shuffling their feet and pretending they had not been piled outside the door, ears pressed against the wood, before the smile broke through once more. He threw himself into Ori’s arm, then, knowing that the young dwarf would catch him.

Ori wrapped his arms around the hobbit just as tightly, muttering angry threats – he better not die on them yet again! – as well as soft encouragements against his neck, before passing him on to Dori.

Just like that, Bilbo was hugged and squished and fussed over by every single member of his beloved dwarven family, before they pulled him towards the parlour, Dwalin and Thorin trudging after them with frowns and smiles both struggling for supremacy. Bombur, it turned out, had finished the stew Bilbo had not gotten very far with, and Balin had taken the time to tell Gandalf – who had felt that something was off, of course, but (for once) had not known what – what had transpired.

And Bilbo allowed himself to be pushed into a chair quite insistently, with Thorin and Dwalin quickly claiming the seats next to him.

Neither of the others attempted to contest their right to that, not even the boys in an attempt to annoy their uncle, and that, more than anything, told Bilbo how distraught his death (which he was trying his damn best not to think about, thank you very much) had really left the two of them.

His small hands quickly found their so much larger ones underneath the table, though, and the wide smiles – still with an edge to them that he suspected would be there for quite some time, but honest and happy none the less – he received in return were more than enough to convince him, that, well. Maybe not everything would be fine just like that, but they would all try their very best.

And this time, they would make it.

(And if Thorin and Dwalin desperately begged him to be careful as they lay snuggled up in his bed later that evening, if they implored him to not needlessly risk his life for them on the following journey, well. Then he promised it quite easily, for doing so had allowed him to draw a promise of the same from the two of them.)

Perhaps, this time, the worst really was behind them.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know, there's dozens of time-travel plots out there (and I adore at least half of them :p)  
> Anyway, my still-rather-sleep-addled brain yesterday morning thought that writing an AU where the whole Company travelled back and re-went through the journey together was just what I needed to write, and soon. So I did ^^


End file.
